


Interior Monologue

by thealphagate_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Adult Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-14
Updated: 2007-07-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 05:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12720762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealphagate_archivist/pseuds/thealphagate_archivist
Summary: Jack can read minds... yeah, I know... not terribly original, but ... hey!  I do my best.





	Interior Monologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the archivists: this story was originally archived at [The Alpha Gate](https://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Alpha_Gate), a Stargate SG-1 archive, which began migration to the AO3 in 2017 when its hosting software, eFiction, was no longer receiving support. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are this creator and it hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Alpha Gate collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/thealphagate).

  
Author's notes: This story is NC-17, adult! I don't own these characters, I just play with them. I've taken a fairly well-worn plot device (being able to read someone else's mind) and given Jack the ability to see into Sam's mind. Thoughts are in italics.  


* * *

Interior Monologue

They were waiting for the elevator. He looked her over, eyes lingering on the bit of cleavage she was showing from the top of her blouse. “So, Carter, got plans for the weekend?” he asked, his voice casual, his features hungry.

“Nothing exciting, I'm afraid, sir,” she responded, stepping into the open car. He followed her, watching her ass, thinking how much he wanted to get his fingers on its fine, taut contours. He placed his body between her and the control panel, leaning well into her space to press the button for the surface, smelling her as he did.

He felt a bolt of heat shoot through his belly... well, not exactly his belly... more like Sam's belly... Sam's belly? _God! she thought. He does that all the time! And every time he does, why do I always feel like fucking him? I want to grab his lapels, slam him up against the elevator wall, hook my leg around his hip, bury my teeth in his neck and rub my crotch up and down the front of his body. God help me._

She grimaced at him, something halfway like a smile, then studied the floor, her mind whirling with images of tearing off his clothes, going down on her knees and sucking his cock. When the door opened, now on the surface level, she got off the elevator and turned to go down the corridor to the check-in station. It took a moment before she realized he was still in the elevator car. She looked back, a flush across her cheeks. He was standing, his back against the wall, breathing fast and shallow, his eyes wild. For a second, with a mirroring flush suffusing his skin, darkening his ever-present tan, his hand clutching his chest, she wondered if he was having a heart attack. “Sir?” she asked, concerned.

He swallowed, peeling himself from the wall. “Y...” He cleared his throat. “Yes, I'm coming.” And then he began to cough uncontrollably. She went back into the elevator and took his arm, pulling him out, pounding on his back. In the corridor he seemed to get his throat under control. He straightened part-way, breathing deeply, hands on his thighs, before he could stand erect again. She looked into his face.

“Are you okay, sir? Should we go back down and have Janet look at you?”

“No,” he said, watching her, his eyes searching, intense. “I'm fine.”

* * * * * * * *

Earlier that day, on a mission to PX3-118, SG1 investigated a cache of Goa'uld technology, apparently stored and abandoned. Each object was more peculiar than the next, mirrors and baubles, whirly things and doohickeys by the dozens. Sam was in hog heaven. Daniel, curious, moved from artifact to artifact examining each piece like a work of art in a museum. Teal'c recognizing no weapons was sagging, slack jawed, against a bench, bored to tears, and Jack, with everyone otherwise engaged, and no one to tell him otherwise was walking around touching everything.

At one point, after touching a particularly odd object, he felt an electrical charge rip through his body, and found himself on his ass halfway across the room. It was then that Sam called a halt to the proceedings, got Teal'c and Daniel to haul Jack's ass off the floor, and headed back to the SGC, telling General Hammond that a scientific team needed to go back and box everything up carefully for further examination.

Back at the SGC Jack’s post-mission visit to the infirmary was particularly long and grueling, but he was pronounced fine, much to his relief, SG1 given a couple of days of downtime, which was why he was leaving the mountain at the same time as his 2IC. What started out as a somewhat standard elevator ride ended up being something so much more, when he stood next to her and, without warning, he began to sense something odd.

_God! she thought. He does that all the time! And every time he does, why do I always feel like fucking him?_

That was the first jolt.

* * * * * * * *

Walking next to her as they approached the check-in desk, he tried to look at her without her noticing. He'd become rather adept at that particular maneuver over the years, but he was rattled and his eyes kept sliding sideways of their own accord. 

_Boy would I like to tap that thing,_ the airman with the clip board said... at least Jack thought that was what he said.

“What did you say?” he asked, just this side of a snarl.

“Sir?” the airman responded, intimidated. _Holy Fuck! He's gonna kill me!_ the man said... or no... Jack was looking right at him... he wasn't talking. He was .......... thinking? Jack signed out and glared at the man, handing Sam the clip board and pen. _She's probably doing him,_ the airman... thought.

Jack shook his head. Was he really hearing what the sign-out guy was thinking? _asshole!_ Yep.

* * * * * * * *

Preoccupied now, wondering if he had gone totally nuts, Jack found himself walking Sam to her Volvo in the Cheyenne Mountain parking lot. “Sir?” she said, turning to him. “Is there something else?” _He looks confused. Awwww... cute. I'd like to stroke his cheek._ He stared at her. _But I can't, can I..._ Sam turned away, pulling out her keys and opening her car door, swallowing her regret. Turning back to him, she frowned slightly. For a second time she said, “Sir?”

It seemed to shake him from his lethargy. He said, “Uh... no... No, Carter. There's nothing.” He turned and walked away from her, shaking his head. He could feel her disappointment keenly. He turned back. “What are you doing for dinner?” he asked. Immediately there was a feeling of excitement, elation coming from her... and something else... anticipation, anxiety... and under it all, fueling it... desire. And then, as quickly as it blossomed, all her good feelings shut down, as surely as an iron door slamming shut. He imagined he could hear it clanging.

“Oh... not much. I really should stay in and pay bills, sir,” she said. “Another time?” He looked at her, lying to him, and he realized something. They'd been lying to each other for so long, it came so easily, they'd lost track of the truth. He jammed his fists into his pockets.

“Sure thing, Carter,” he muttered. “Another time.” He turned and walked away, his mind churning.

* * * * * * * *

He went to the grocery store. As he pushed his cart up and down the aisles, peoples' thoughts drifted in and out of his head.

_it's criminal what they put in these things... polychlorohydramine sulfate... what the fuck is that?_

_oh my god, if this kid doesn't shut up I'm seriously gonna clobber him..._

_this time he's really going to leave his wife, I just know it..._

_I don't get paid enough for this shit..._

A middle-aged woman, with a cart full of Diet Coke and cookies, passed him in the aisle. She barely spared him a glance. _yum... oh, too bad... baggy pants... I wonder if he's as big as those hands ..._ Jack looking back at her, a small smile on her lips, was shocked.

He began to wonder if other people's thoughts were going to overwhelm him, but he noticed that they had to be in close proximity for their thoughts to intrude. When two or three people were in his vicinity, the din in his head was intense, but with one person it was bearable.

* * * * * * * *

He knocked. He knew she was home. He could hear her in his head. She was relaxed, as much as she ever relaxed, drinking a glass of wine and reading something incomprehensible to him. She came to the door and looked at him through the peep hole. And ... damn! ... did that happen every time? Heat flooded her belly when she saw him.

He felt her take a couple of deep breaths. The door opened. He stood there, groceries in hand. “Hey, Carter, what're you doing?” he asked.

_why is he here? And why does he always look so adorable?_ Sam swallowed, giving herself time to think of an appropriate response. In his mind he heard her discard several responses, including _come in here, Big Poppa, and I'll do you! ..._ Before he heard her say, “Uh... hi, _Jack!_ sir... is there a problem?”

“No, no problem.” He stood there looking at her, feeling the heat of her thoughts, and was momentarily sidetracked, before he was able to ask, “May I come in?”

“Oh... well...” He felt her mind race though excuses, until she said, simply, “Sure.” What struck him so strongly was how little she trusted herself with him. It seemed she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her... and that was a lot. She hid it better than he did. In fact she'd become shockingly adept at hiding her feelings and responses from him and even, perhaps, from herself.

He sauntered in and closed the door. She looked at him questioningly. “I have to eat dinner... and you have to eat dinner. So I thought, why not do it together?” he said, gesturing with his armfuls. He felt her blush before he saw it stain her cheeks, and was astonished at the dirty little details which crept into her mind when he said _do it together_. If he hadn't been semi-hard already, it would have made every drop of blood in his body rush to his dick.

He turned abruptly into her kitchen standing behind her counter to hide his reaction. She started to follow him in, but he held up a hand. “You go back to your reading,” he said. “I'll get dinner ready.”

“But, sir, I've already eaten,” she said.

Searching her mind, he offered, “two glasses of wine and three ritz crackers aren't dinner.” She started to object, but stopped suddenly.

“How did you know what I ate?” she asked suspiciously.

“Lucky guess,” he said, turning his back on her, pulling items from the grocery bags. She shrugged and believed him, to his relief, and went to sit down and continue reading. Periodically she looked up at him in her kitchen, banging around, but she forced herself to read. And when he caught her looking, which was every single time, he smiled at her, or waved, or raised his eyebrows, or something else so charming, she just had to laugh, or giggle, or sigh, feeling the warmth in her belly grow.

In a surprisingly short time, he prepared a really good meal, salad, bread, chicken and vegetables, pumpkin pie with coffee for dessert. It was better than she, herself, would have eaten if she cooked, and she complimented him. He preened, knowing her praise was genuine.

After the meal, she washed dishes while he watched her, not bothering to disguise his observation. It made her uncomfortable, but not for all the reasons he thought before he could hear her thoughts. She liked being under his gaze. She liked his attention, and it worried her, because she could feel her self-protective armor slipping in the warmth of his eyes.

As she walked by him, the last dish to be washed in her hand, he reached out and grabbed her, pulling her to his lap. She landed hard, taking her a moment to realize where she was, before she bounded up again, only to have him anticipate her move and bring her back down again. “Sir!” she said shocked.

“Come on, Carter, you know you want to be here,” he said.

_don't call me Carter... I'm not one of the boys..._ “No, sir,” she said, her mind in turmoil. She went to stand again.

“Don't do this, Sam,” he said. “Please,” his hand on her wrist, keeping her from walking away.

She wriggled out of his grip and put the dish down, turning to face him across the small space of her kitchen. “You should go,” she said.

“I don't think so,” he said. The images from her mind were wildly contradictory. She was appalled at his audacity, pulling her into his lap. She was irrevocably turned on, feeling his hard-on against her ass, moisture pooling between her thighs, wetting her panties. He could feel her response viscerally, and he wanted to explore it, make her feel it, instead of running from it. He could also sense the weight of her duty, as physically present as an intangible could be.

He stood and began to close in on her, backing her up against the counter, pressing his arousal into her. He watched her eyes close, a soft moan escaping from between her perfect, parted lips, and the scenarios which rolled in her mind-theater were amazing. Without waiting for permission, he slipped both arms around her and held her upper body to his. Then he kissed her, her arms winding around his neck. The script in her brain was scorching his... and he struggled to keep up, until he broke from her lips and cried,”Stop!”

* * * * * * * *

At least he thought that's what happened. In fact, as he stood in front of her, breathing heavily, pressed into her, groin to groin, he realized ... she was the one who cried out, her hands on his chest, trying to push him away. And it confused him, because her mind and her body were at war. Her body was screaming for him, pulsing, heated, a thudding drumbeat below the waist, but her mind... It was a vast empyream of numbers and trajectories, algorithms and equations, and all of it was saying no, no, no. Her career, the fraternization regulations, her duty, her position as his 2IC, her fears for her sanity, if she let the beast of her need loose, all of it was screaming, “No”.

He looked into her face, trying to understand her tears, her anger, her need. “Stop, sir,” she said, her voice on the edge of hysteria.

“Sam...” he whispered, his breath on her lips.

“Please... stop, Jack,” she said, more calmly, pulling a shred of sanity from the yawning conflict within her.

“I... I don't understand,” he said, pulling his body from hers, feeling her immediate grief, her longing... but her hands were on his chest pushing him away.

“You need to leave, sir,” she said, firmly. He knew she was lying, to him, to herself. For a moment, he considered just taking her, stripping her and fucking her right there in the kitchen. Her body was screaming for it. He could feel her arousal, a pulsing, liquid heat deep in her belly, tentacles of need extending to her sex, her breasts, her mouth. The surface of her skin was almost painful, her lungs heaving, her throat constricted.

It confused the hell out of him. Even if he hadn't been privy to everything she thought and felt, he knew he would be confused, because her face, her pulse, her breathing, her tight nipples, would have told him how much she wanted him, how his presence affected her. And all the while, with her words, she was telling him no, stop, leave.

He stepped away, putting a space between them. “You're lying,” he snarled, reaching for her upper arms, grabbing her. A new sensation shot through her, hard, metallic... fear. He released her immediately, taking another step back. Breathing through his nose, out his mouth, trying to calm himself, he damped down his anger. “You want this. You want me. And you're lying to me about it, trying to pretend you don't, telling me to go.” Instead of draining away, her fear increased, her heart beginning to pound. He tried to think, driven by his own needs. He backed away from her to the other side of the kitchen, leaning on the counter behind him, trying to lessen the threat he seemed to impose.

“You know what's worse, Sam,” he said, trying to sound conversational, betraying the roughness of his desire for her. “You're not just lying to me, you're lying to yourself.” He felt a subtle change in her, her fear ebbing, a new feeling emerging. It scared him a little how quickly her thoughts and moods changed. He wondered if it was a woman thing. “You tell yourself what you should feel, expecting your heart and body to comply, when all along you've known, inside, how you feel about me, about ... us.” The constriction in her throat became painful, and he saw the images in her mind scaling by, their bodies bound together, hands linked, mouths fused, breeching her with his cock, her father standing over them, fury on his face, General Hammond's look of disappointment and disgust, her embarrassment and shame, her regret, depression, anger... and still the pulsing need for him, driving her.

“Don't lie to me,” he said. “Don't lie to yourself.” Her face was a mask, emotions flickering across her features. The swell of her feelings, the conflict within her, was so vivid, so intense, he wondered how she could stand it. He realized, then, that she was much, much stronger than he, much more complex, and it surprised him. “Come on, Sam,” he said, opening his arms.

* * * * * * * *

Her eyes slid over him and he felt the cascade of her responses viscerally. _his face... his dear, dear face... so handsome... does he even know? That neck... I want to bury my teeth in it, smell him... His shoulders... chest. His.. Don't look... !_ He smirked at her suddenly, her eyes returning to his face, questioning. Then, she couldn't help herself. She looked. _oh god, how big is he?_ The flood of heat returned to her belly, tightening her womb. He blushed.

Desire, want, need... Love. Her responses overwhelmed him nearly as much as they swamped her. She loved him. Wait... she loved him? He looked at her critically. She loved him. It made him straighten, lowering his arms. She loved him. This wasn't going to be a mindless, needy fuck to her... it was everything.

And there was something else within her. He felt her uncertainty... not about her own feelings... about his. _I know he cares for me. He's said so, but does he ...?_ And before he realized he was saying it... he did. “I love you, Sam. I never stopped.”

It was as if she came unglued, unstuck. In an instant the din in his head, in her head, was gone. She flew across the kitchen into his arms. There was blinding clarity within her. Her doubts lost their volume. Her needs, bolstered by her belief in him, spoke clearly to her. She pressed herself to him, her chin raised, her lips on his, her hands on his chest, no longer pushing away, but caressing.

He rose off the edge of the counter to hold her, his arms encircling her. She felt so right, warm, willing, needing him. And without consciously knowing what he was doing, he began to see himself as she did, strong, hard, powerful. His hands traced the length of her sides. _touch me here... there... oh god, perfect... again... harder..._ And he did, he touched her everywhere she needed, pressing his fingers into her flesh, harder than he would have imagined, treating her body as if it were his own, knowing what she wanted, what she needed, because her mind told him, her body sang to him.

He could feel the heat pooling in her belly. He could sense her womb clenching as he pushed his hot length, still confined within his trousers, against the softness between her thighs. He felt the ache in her breasts, the tightening of her nipples and the answering shimmer of sensation in her clit as his body pressed against hers. _I need to feel you naked... right now!_ he heard... no, felt her say. Obliging, he stripped off his shirt, reaching for hers, pulling it off her. _His knees..._ she worried, and Jack smirked, knowing how much she cared for him.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's get comfortable.” He took her hand and began to lead her to her sofa in the livingroom, thinking he would hold her in his lap, and kiss her for a while. The scenery in her mind, however, told him otherwise. He was astonished to feel her thoughts. _Take me... Take me... Take me..._ And so he turned to her, pulled her into his arms and swept her down the hallway to the bedroom, continuing to strip them both. He put his hands on her breasts, hearing her need to be touched. He lowered his mouth to her tight nipples, as she cried out, biting her, as her mind screamed for it.

Now in the bedroom, and for the first time in a long time, Jack found himself sexually uncertain. He considered himself a good lover, considerate, a gentleman, passionate, caring, willing to do whatever was needed to bring his partners pleasure. And he was reasonably sure he’d been successful in his earlier endeavors, confident that the women in his bed were satisfied. He’d gone on instinct and experience, listening to the sound of breathing, the beat of their hearts, their moans, to know what aroused them and made them crazy. He was unafraid to use his mouth, his hands, his cock to whatever advantage in the task.

But now that he was inside the mind of Sam Carter, privy to her most intimate thoughts and feelings, he didn’t know what to do. Should he proceed with his usual approach, or should he follow her needs, her wants, her fantasies, and see where they took him? He decided to do what he did best... go with his gut.

Lying half on top of her, he proceeded to explore her body, leaving nothing untouched or untasted. He could feel her arousal mounting, gratified when his investigation of her neck revealed sensitive places he could probe with lips, teeth and tongue. And while his mouth was busy above, his hands were busy below, kneading her breasts, tweaking her nipples, lazily tracing the taut skin of her belly, into her curls. He moved to follow his hand, kneeling between her thighs, pressing them apart, only to hear her shriek within her mind, _No, no, no!_ , a flood of images, all of them negative following her silent cry.

“You... don’t have to...” she said hesitantly. But he was secure in his abilities and he didn’t like what he saw in her mind, the feelings of inadequacy, of imperfection and ugliness, associated with the act he was poised to perform.

“You’re beautiful, Sam,” he said, gently, his thumb swiping along her wet folds, settling on her clit, stroking minutely. “And I want to do this,” he told her, over the objections he felt coming from within her. “Let me,” he said, “please.” With intense reluctance, but touched by his words, and aroused by his thumb, she acquiesced, her thighs parting to allow him access.

He didn’t know what other men had told her, but she was, in fact, beautiful. Her flesh glistened, trembling as he breathed on her, taking in her scent... and pouring out of her mind, fear, disgust, anxiety over what he thought about her, how she appeared to him. He knew nothing he said could change her feelings. He’d have to show her.

He lowered his face to her curls, swiping his mouth and chin back and forth slowly, breathing her scent deeply. He started by kissing her folds, soft pecks, covering her flesh in kisses, slowly deepening, letting his tongue play, a flick here, a lap there, until she began to squirm under him. Now he began a thorough exploration of her sex, finding which touches made her womb quiver, her clit throb, hearing her rising erotic tension as she broadcast into his mind. His fingers came into play, stroking through her flesh, slipping into her tight entrance, stretching her, rubbing in her sensitive channel, creating friction and heat, searching for the places which made her squeak.

And as her climax rose, gathering strength from his efforts and from the feelings he evoked in her, he was momentarily overwhelmed. The steady stream of equations and theorems, the background music of her consciousness, snapped to black, primal feelings, powerful sensations emitting from the center of her body, ripping outward, claiming her extremities and ricocheting back to the middle, deep in her belly. Spasms, as much about pain as they were of pleasure, loosened her voice, turning her spine into super-heated liquid, rushing, pounding through her, until she cried out, her muscles throbbing. And in her mind... gibberish, interspersed with his name. He was very pleased with himself.

He moved alongside her, pulling her into his arms, stroking her hair as she came down from the erotic high to which he brought her, and was amused by her interior monologue, the argument between sleepiness and her desire to bring him release, her hand seeking his shaft. But it was her amazement as her fingers closed, or tried to, around him, her astonishment at his size and hardness, the rapid resumption of her arousal as she touched him, which truly startled him. He knew that women had a better turn-around time than men. He hadn’t realized just how quickly her libido would recover, and was momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer force of her need so quickly after he’d satisfied her.

Somehow, this time, her arousal was different. He didn’t quite know how it was different. He just knew it was. There was a greediness, a neediness within her which wasn’t there before. And he felt her emptiness, her need for him to fill her, to stretch her, to fuck her hard and dominate her, none of which he would have guessed before he’d gained this illicit insight into her body and mind. And so he did, rising over her, spreading her thighs roughly, _Oh...yessss!_ raising her knees, settling on her, making her take his weight, and then his cock _God... oh god... oh_ , pushing into her, withdrawing and pushing in again, her hips rising to meet his thrust as he filled her.

Her mind was blank, no grocery list of equations, no number strings, just pure feeling, arousal beyond anything he’d ever felt on his own. The intensity was alarming, frightening and overwhelming, and he felt for a few seconds as if he would lose himself, lose everything that was Jack O’Neill, overtaken by the waves of sensation which pulsed through her, as he slammed his cock into her, a rigid presence within her softness. The din in his head, as she babbled incoherently, the feel of his heavy body ranging over her, his breath on her neck, his fingers on her breast, and the heady, primal, visceral feel of his cock within her, was incomprehensible to him. Drawing deeply on his own sense of self, he concentrated, pulling himself out of her mind, willing the noise to dampen, needing only one voice, his own.

And his own voice, the familiar voice of his dick, telling him, “Go, go, go! Fuck her!”, cries he’d learn to ignore, he let that voice guide him. It was somehow soothing, straight forward, uncomplicated. Inside Sam’s head, the rushing winds of emotion, the crashing floods of feeling, it was too much for him. His respect for her doubled, tripled, as he realized just how complicated she was, how much she juggled, from the primitive, throbbing demands of her sex to the complex mathematical sequences, playing a beautiful symphony behind everything she said and did, he marveled, mid-thrust, at this woman’s depth. He brought her breast to his mouth, lipping the sensitive tip, feeling a sudden back current, snapping through her to her clit, abruptly sweeping him, without volition, into a vortex so potent, he was helpless to resist.

She was coming, irrational, out of control, synapses firing so rapidly, so powerfully, muscles rigid in spasm, pleasure beyond understanding, pain and joy leavened together and inextricable, radiating from her sex, extending to her extremities, curling her toes, fisting her fingers, slamming her eyes shut, ascending, impending, expanding incrementally, and thoroughly inescapable. And within the storm, only two things were identifiable: his cock, buried in her pussy. Swept along with her, his own release burgeoning, he was humbled by the immensity of her response to him. And then he was coming too, flooding her with his hot, thick seed, erupting in her depths, somehow refueling her orgasm, as he jerked against her, spending himself within her, as her muscles continued to stroke him.

He fell across her body, struck down by the simultaneous deluge of feelings, his own and hers, absolutely pole-axed by the experience, passing out as surely as if someone had taken a two-by-four to his temple. And beneath him, equally overwhelmed by some of the best sex of her life, her every need fulfilled by this amazing man on top of her, she, too, passed out.

* * * * * * * *

When Daniel found Sam in her lab at the SGC several days later, he noticed immediately that something had changed. She was still Sam, of course, but there was a sparkle in her eyes, a dreaminess, a softness, which he noted. He’d come to see her, because he was following up on various artifacts and implements they’d found on their last mission, and he wanted to check on the device, which gave Jack such a tremendous jolt. Daniel brought with him a pad on which he’d penned his translation of the characters he deciphered on the artifact, and since he’d been unable to contact either one of them during their downtime, his intuitive mind had supplied the obvious conclusion. By Sam’s looks, he was right.

Instead of confronting her, he decided to test his theory. The archaeologist sauntered down to Jack’s office, knocking and entering. Immediately, without preamble, Daniel concentrated his considerable intelligence and thought, _You and Sam have been fucking like bunnies for the last two days!_

“Have not,” Jack said.

“Have not... what?” Daniel responded.

Jack, who didn’t even look up when Daniel walked in, gave the younger man his sudden and complete attention. “What?” he asked.

“You heard me,” the younger man answered.

“Did not,” Jack replied.

“Yes, you did, Jack,” Daniel said patiently. “That device, which zapped you on PX3-118 allows you to hear other peoples thoughts. And you heard mine.”

“No,” Jack said, shaking his head in denial.

“Yes, Jack,” Daniel said. He perched on the corner of Jack’s desk. “Did you tell her?” he asked.

“Tell her what, Daniel?” Jack asked, standing, looking at his friend dangerously.

“That you can read her mind, that you know her darkest fantasies, her deepest desires?” The two men faced off, Daniel mild, his point made, Jack unveiled, embarrassed and ashamed, and angry about it. He was considering punching Daniel in the face, when the archaeologist cleared his throat. “The effect isn’t permanent, you know,” he said. “In fact, it will probably wear off in the next 24 hours.” Jack sat heavily, searching the other man’s mind for the truth. He scrubbed his hand across his face, as he confirmed what Daniel told him. “You didn’t tell her, did you?” Jack shook his head, guilt staining his cheeks. “Why, Jack?” the younger man asked.

“She...” Jack wanted to tell Daniel everything, to explain what he did and why, and to explore with his friend his newfound admiration and understanding, his deepening love for Sam... but it wasn’t in his nature. He needed to say something, but he wasn’t sure what.

“She loves you,” Daniel supplied. Jack nodded. “And you love her,” the younger man suggested. Jack smirked. “And now that you’ve been in her mind, _and that hot, hot body_ you’re more in love with her than ever.”

“Hey!” Jack responded, “don’t think about her like that.”

“Sorry,” Daniel said, his eyebrows rising, standing up, reaching for the door, not in the least contrite, watching Jack tense as he read his friend’s less than pristine thoughts about Sam. “Gotta go, now,” the younger man said, slipping out the door, broadcasting all of his inappropriate thoughts about Jack’s beloved.

“Daniel!” Jack bellowed. All he could hear as his friend headed down the corridor was laughter.


End file.
